"belleville" poems
for Ashley and Trent
Joyous tears lie just ahead,
for Trent and Ashley
will seal their love today.
Pipes, strings, brass and voices
will soar beneath
Saint Peters towering nave
and we'll rise as one to affirm
their pledge of love and faith.
They met in band at Belleville East
and always seemed to know
that on some spring morn in June
they would stand at the altar
to vow their lives to constancy.
We all knew it too and today
we would be no other place
for hope unbounded rules the day
and echoes in our grateful hearts.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
Standing in the tunnel
at Eighth and Pine station,
I survey westbound commuters
waiting across the tracks -
standing arms akimbo
or leaning on marble walls.
A well-suited young man paces the platform -
cell phone pressed to his cheek.
[Passengers stand clear of the
edge of the platform at all times]
Rushing in from the east,
a gleaming white chariot
arrives - pauses - resumes
leaving the far platform vacated
as if by alien abduction
From the left a blazing light
pierces the tunnel
and the Shiloh – Scott eastbound
halts and snaps open its doors.
crossing the threshold.,
I claim a seat by the aisle.
[Please stand clear! Doors are closing]
With eyes half shut I scan the crowd:
uniformed workers wearing ID's,
a toddler’s arms and legs
dangling off his mother's lap,
An elderly couple talking softly.
The soft clatter of wheels
and the gentle side-to-side sway
rocks us like a cradle -
memories of the long day
melting into thoughts of home.
[Fairview Heights Station.
Doors open to my right]
The lady with the toddler steps off.
A trio of teenage girls
fresh from the mall
seek and find empty seats -
filling the rear of the car
with the music of their chatter.
Streetlamps scatter shadows
over parking lots.
The unseen country side
slips by under cover of darkness.
Headlights gleam like jewels
waiting for crossing gates to lift
[Next stop Belleville Station
Doors open to my left]
I clutch my lap top,
work my way to the door
and wait for the train’s full stop
Stepping out into the frost filled air
I pause to watch the sleak white chariot
vanish on the eastern horizon.
September, 2006
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
Snowfall gently covered Belleville
in a blanket of softest down –
iridescent in the gaslight coronas.
A carriage pulled up at City Park Hall where
the coachman took white-gloved hands
and eased the ladies gently down the steps.
Some paused to pat the horses
in thanksgiving for the lift.
Top - hatted men offered arms to their wives,
escorting them up the snowy stairs
and into the buzzing lobby.
Trays of wine circled the room -
their cargo reduced at every stop.
Each raconteur spoke of celebration for the
Philharmonic had turned a decade old that week.
Programs in hand, people claimed their seats
while musicians on stage
practiced random admixtures of
excerpts that would come to order soon.
Then by the light of gas chandeliers,
Julius Liese raised his arms and brought
Haydn’s symphonic London to Illinois -
a citizen orchestra led by the local lumber czar.
After the final echoes melted into applause
and coats were lifted over shoulders;
the time had come for the waiting carriages -
snow still swirling in the gaslight glow.
The clopping of hooves on cobblestone
drifted into the passengers’ ears
and co-mingled with the echoes of
strings, drums and wind blown music
still singing in their memories
and irradiating their souls,
January, 2007
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
i. You are lying in a bed with no sheets and you are convinced your friends' parents are alcoholics. You are convinced that your entire life has been woven of slimy, sloppy lies and half truths. And you are convinced that you are a werewolf.
ii. At the chili cook-off two years ago you were wearing red flannel and a bandit hat and you were watching your entire home town get wasted, looking at you like a museum. You are convinced that you have been lied to.
iii. It was a full moon and you wanted to tear your clothes off. Except for the bellbottoms which you wanted to carefully hang up with a finicky crease for next time.
iv. You notice that down the street the Hy-ho has closed and you are unsure how to proceed because you know that normal people do not get upset about such trivial things as midnight blue pies and insomniac coffee. You want to sob, but people will talk.
v. You are convinced you are a werewolf and you have been lied to. Everyone is smoking around you and you want only to make it stop. This is where your mother grew up. You say nothing.
vi. Drinks seem to appear in your hands, unsolicited. You have forgotten your ID, but everyone knows you from the papers anyway, everyone knows your family and they sort of apologize for spilling beer on your boots. Sort of.
vii. You crave pies at midnight and this is a "beautiful city" with a square that does not quit and causes quite a few accidents. This is a "beautiful city" filled with people who will never get over the high school quarterback, people who will never admit they have a problem with Stag, though the cans lie all around you.
viii. You are a werewolf and you are convinced you have been lied to about alcoholism. You are upset about the Hy-ho, more so than you should be. If you took off your flannel now, you would never be able to get your heart back in your chest and Belleville would laugh itself to sleep.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
Castle on the hill
A lot lies in this valley that hide,
secrets in woods and stream reside.
Dying tales of history here persist,
protected like a mother by dazed mist.
Holding head high, you see past go still,
standing with pride, a castle on the hill.
It stands tall, it stands bold,
look and you’ll find every story it holds.
As you adore this breathtaking view,
it slowly reveals it’s chronicles to you.
It yarns of glory and pride tranquil,
telling it’s tale, a castle on the hill.
But as you reach it’s forgotten threshold,
it’s old scars and welts you behold.
To cruel history it’s gratitude it owed,
to fangs of revenge alas it’s head it bowed.
So it breaths it’s last, at outskirts of belleville,
dying of ignorance, a castle on the hill.
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 2:17 PM UTC